Footprints in the Snow
by Sarlania
Summary: Hornblower mourns for a lost friend. Set after the events of Lord Hornblower. Inspired by a comment Hornblower makes in the novel Flying Colours: “Bush was like a dog…coming fawning to the hand that beat him.”


**Footprints in the Snow**

_Sheerness, July 1814 _

The sun was just setting below the horizon, and the tide and wind had just come in, when a ragged group of boys, urchins and street ruffians, left the Fiddler's Cat Inn. The air around their bodies was heavy with the fetid and acrid scent of cheap bear and wine as they staggered to where the boats from the ships out at anchor in the Downs were coming in. It was their hope to set upon some unfortunate sailor or passer-by and spend their gains on more drink and debauchery.

It was there they saw the dog; a miserable wretched thing, its rough coat soaked and matted as if it'd just pulled itself out of the water. The boys also noticed with a certain glee that the dog, whose blue eyes were dulled with weariness, hunger and pain, was slightly singed about the ribs. The youths were some of the worst sort of people to walk the streets of England: crude, uncompassionate and uncouth. They took extreme pleasure in the pain and sufferings of others, and tonight it was the dog that was to suffer their torment. Quayside stones were cast in its direction and curses spilled out from their months. And although the dog was nimble and fierce, it was no match for the boys' malice.

Their amusement, however, was halted abruptly by an authoritative voice of displeasure; turning, the boys beheld the tall figure of a naval officer- a post captain judging by the uniform and twin epaulettes on his shoulders. Any thoughts of thievery were immediately quenched and they quailed under the vehemence of his glare. His eyes, they noticed, seemed to contain the dark fury of the sea itself within its soulful depths, and the boys hung their head and tensed, expecting blows to fall. Relaxation came only after the captain had stalked off into to a waiting coach with a large and muscular manservant in tow, his dark cloak billowing around him in the evening gloom.

When the boys turned back, the dog was gone.

***

Sir Horatio Hornblower, recently elevated to the Peerage as Lord Hornblower of Smallbridge, studied the rapidly encroaching lights of his estate with and a profound sense of dissatisfaction. After parting with Barbara in France with cordial civility and leaving her to accompany her brother, the Duke of Wellington, to Vienna, Hornblower had rushed home with a speed and urgency that'd surprised even Brown and forgoing a visit to Rear Admiral Sir Dennis Clough on his arrival in Sheerness. Now, as he stepped out of the carriage and surveyed his house, he wondered why he'd been in such a hurry; for apart from the much welcomed company of Richard, everything and everyone he'd ever cared for had been left behind on the other side of the Channel.

The amusement at seeing the dumbstruck faces of the servants (for there had not been sufficient time to send word ahead of his arrival) checked Hornblower's brooding for a few minutes as he walked into his study and slumped into the armchair before the empty fireplace. But it soon returned in full force as he bitterly contemplated the cost and consequences of a war that had spanned two decades and finally drew to a close a month ago. As Hornblower reflected on this, he remained oblivious to the maids' scurrying to get the fire lit, paid no attention to a change of clothes being foisted upon him and barely registered a plate of food and wine being brought and placed on a low table beside him. Nor did he lift a head two hours later when Brown walked in to collect the cold, untouched meal, leaving behind a decanter and glass of brandy. He was lost in a boiling sea of melancholy, and the fire could not rid his heart of the chill that had descended upon it. _What is lost cannot be regained…_

A sudden sound shook him from his reverie and he leapt to his feet searching his person for the sword that was not there. Something in the shadows by the window caught his eye and as he reached for the poker by the grating, that something walked hesitantly into the flickering light.

It was that dog from Sheerness. The one he'd saved from the street boys earlier this evening. Somehow it had followed him here, compelled by a misguided sense of gratitude and devotion to its saviour. Frowning, Hornblower studied its features, taking in the burn marks and clumps of matted hair. The dog, he noticed, had left a set of muddy footprints over Barbara's Russian carpet; an indulgence during those days when the fleets blockaded the major ports of France and her allies and commerce with the Continent was difficult. Hornblower pulled the bell and almost immediately, Brown walked in.

"My lord?" He said, immediately taking in the dog and the dirty carpet.

"Have that dog removed, Brown. Take it…" Here Hornblower stopped, struck by a sudden recollection that washed the colour from his cheeks. A few seconds passed before Brown's hesitant prompting brought him back to reality. Flushing with embarrassment at being seen in such a position, Hornblower straightened with a ha-h'm and said, curtly, "take it into the kitchen and see that it is fed and cleaned. That will be all."

Brown, used this behaviour, made no comment other than a "my lord" and hastily exited the room with the wet and dirty dog in tow, leaving Hornblower to his contemplation.

***

Brown had seen many things in these years at Hornblower's side, first as coxswain aboard the _Lydia_ and _Sutherland_, then in the carriage ride through France and the thrilling escape down the Loire and now as his manservant. He had thought himself well acquainted with his master's moods and peculiarities. Yet he had never seen the Baronet in such an outwardly agitated mood, as he had been these past six weeks at Smallbridge. Apart from when he played with Richard, Lord Hornblower spent much of his waking hours in a sour, grumpy mood, pacing about the house and gardens with relentless energy. Even in company (Lord Hornblower was much in demand in the neighbourhood these weeks) he was less courteous than usual, although strangely he did seem to spend much time talking to Brown about the past; something that Brown very much enjoyed. His behaviour had exasperated and perplexed all of the servants and they, being all fond of gossip even though they deeply respected their lord, had come up with various reasons to explain the Baron's ill-humour.

What was most peculiar, Brown mused, was the dog that now followed Lord Hornblower around wherever he went and causing many an amusing comment by the servants. Its presence was at first doggedly ignored by Hornblower. However, as Brown noticed with amusement, even with his mask of indifference and loftiness, after a few days Hornblower could not help but acknowledge the terrier's presence with an occasional pat and stroke.

So when Hornblower summoned Brown to his study one evening, he was not surprised to see the dog lying there on the clean carpet while his lordship stood at the window with a letter in his hands, his tall figure was silhouetted in the moonlight and the lace curtains Lady Barbara had commissioned during his Baltic command billowed around his form in the cool autumn breeze.

"Start packing my bags Brown. We're going back to France."

"Yes my lord," said Brown.

The Baron studied the letter. "The Gracays have invited us to stay," he said and Brown's heart ignited with pleasure even as he kept his face composed. "It'll be like old times again."

"I suppose so my lord. It will be good to go back."

Hornblower nodded absently. "Yes Brown," he said calmly. "It will."

As Brown left the study to start packing, despite the joy in his heart at the thought of seeing Annette again, he could not help noticing how settled and calm Lord Hornblower was now that he was going back to France.

***

_Smallbridge Manor December 1816_

Hornblower could not sleep.

There was nothing unusual about that, for on all his commissions in the past he had often found it difficult to sleep, and would sometimes lie in his cot for hours at a time pretending to be asleep before it was occasion for him to be on deck. Yet there was something different about tonight's insomnia he could not put his finger on. At daybreak, Hornblower gave up the pretence and being careful not to wake his wife he pulled on his clothes and boots and headed outside for a walk. The dog, as usual, followed him, limping a few feet behind its master.

A few months ago, during one of Hornblower's solitary walks in the garden, the dog fell into one of Richard's holes that hadn't been discovered and filled because it was covered over with leaves and branches. Hornblower had extracted the dog from the hole and, despite its indignant protests, wrapped it up in his cloak and carried it back to the house to be tended to by one of the stable boys. An incompetent stable boy, since the fracture had not healed properly leaving the dog with a limp that restricted its movements around the house. The dog, however, had not let that deter him from following his master on his walks.

It was snowing outside and Hornblower shivered under his many layers. He started his pacing up and down the garden on the windward side, his hands clasped behind his back and his sensitive, well tuned nautical senses subconsciously informing his brain of the direction and speed of the wind. His footprints left a wide wake that soon disappeared as time passed by. As he paced, the dazzling white landscape blurred until all he could see were the snowflakes falling past his eyes and beyond that a great white mist. Yet as he walked, he could have sworn that he could hear the rushing of a great river and occasionally the clop and clatter of hooves and carriage, even though the nearest river was a mile away and there would be no visitors at this ungodly hour.

So on he paced, followed by the dog with the clear blue eyes. Together they fought the wind and the cold, and together they leave their footprints in the snow.


End file.
